


Burt Hummel to the Rescue

by fhartz91



Series: Daddies Klaine [17]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddies!Klaine, Family, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, Husbands, M/M, Pumpkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 22:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12351468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: Blaine and Tracy come home, excited to get started carving pumpkins for Halloween … until they see the pumpkins Kurt bought.





	Burt Hummel to the Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write. I felt we needed some Halloween fluff, so here ya go :)

“Pump-kins! Pump-kins! Pump-kins!” Blaine chants along with his daughter, Tracy, as they leap from Blaine’s BMW and head for their house.

“What do we want?” Blaine yells, racing to the door first and unlocking it before Tracy can run headlong into it.

“Pumpkins!” Tracy yells.

“When do we want them?” Blaine flings the door open wide.

“Now!” Tracy cheers, leaping in the air with a hand raised to give her father a high five.

“So, are you guys ready to carve some pumpkins?” Kurt calls to his husband and daughter, who he can hear racing his way.

“Yeah!” they cheer. Blaine tickles Tracy to make her go faster, looking just as excited as his wiggling little girl as they both stampede into the kitchen. But they skid to a stop in the doorway, nearly falling over themselves when they see what’s waiting for them - four smaller-than-average pumpkins perched on the kitchen island, each the exact same size, the exact same shape, obviously faux. Blaine raises a shaking finger and points at Kurt’s blasphemous offering.

“What … are  _those_?”

“These” - Kurt picks one up and carries it over to his husband and daughter, who simultaneously shrink away - “are craft pumpkins.”

“What … what does that _mean_ , exactly?” Blaine asks. “ _Craft_ pumpkins? What kind of terrible witchcraft is that?”

Kurt laughs at his husband’s obvious drama for their daughter’s behalf, so he indulges for a moment in chasing Blaine and Tracy around the kitchen, brandishing one of the pumpkins before returning it to the counter. “It means … no stringy pumpkin guts staining Tracy’s clothes. No gunge under our fingernails for weeks. No finding cold pumpkin under our butts when we sit on the breakfast stools, even though I’ve gone over this place about three dozen times with Formula 409. No muss, no fuss, and most importantly - no _mess_.” Kurt glances at the clock on the wall. “Which is perfect since my dad and Carole are going to be here any minute.”

Blaine looks at Tracy, who gazes up at him in anguish.

“But, what about toasting pumpkin seeds?” Tracy asks miserably.

“I bought a pound of pumpkin seeds from the farmers market on the way home,” Kurt says. “So we’re still toasting seeds.”

“And … what about your pies?” Blaine sounds even more miserable than Tracy. “Your famous Kurt Ander-Hummel Pumpkin Pies?”

“I picked up some pie pumpkins at the market, too. No worries. Do you think my dad and Carole would even walk through the front door if I didn’t have pumpkin pie in the house?”

“Okay,” Blaine says, “well, what about that yummy pumpkin smell?”

“Yeah,” Tracy agrees. “What about the smell?”

“I already thought of that …” Kurt walks over to one of the cupboards and takes out a brand new Glade Holiday Scents candle. While Tracy and Blaine watch in horror, Kurt tears off the cardboard and lights the wick. He walks with it around the room, spreading the aroma of “pumpkin” in the air. He then places the candle carefully on the kitchen table, waving at it lightly so the scent travels into the living room. “Voila! Pumpkin smell!”

“I don’t … I don’t _believe_ this!” Tracy buries her head into the back of her father’s thigh. “It’s like a bad dream!”

“Please tell me you’re kidding!” Blaine contorts to put a protective arm around his distraught daughter’s shoulders. “Please tell me that there are a row of decently-sized, _real_ pumpkins in the back yard, and that this is just a sick joke!”

“What?” Kurt says, hurt when he realizes his husband and daughter might not be joking after all. “No, Blaine. This is … this is it. These are our pumpkins for this year. I thought that if anyone would be on board with this, it would be _you,_ Mr. Arts and Crafts.”

“How? Halloween is one of my all-time favorite holidays! And pumpkins – they’re the heart and soul of it! How could you think that I would ever be okay taking that heart and soul and replacing it with … with … whatever _those_ are made of?”

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest and huffs at his husband’s childish behavior. Tracy pretty much imitates everything Blaine does. He doesn’t need her acting like a man who can’t act his age. “Blaine. Tracy, honey. Don’t you guys think you’re overreacting just a little?”

“No!” Blaine and Tracy say together.

“Come on. It won’t be _that_ bad.”

“No.” Blaine shakes his head, pointing at the imposter pumpkins on the island. “This … this goes beyond  _bad_. This is _awful_!”

“Yeah,” Tracy’s muffled voice concurs. “ _Awful_!”

“I mean, what’s going to be next, Kurt? Soy candy canes on the tree at Christmas? Styrofoam eggs at Easter? Near beer on St. Paddy’s Day?”

“Blaine …” Kurt opens his mouth right as the doorbell rings. He looks over at the clock, then back at his pouty husband, and sighs. That has to be his dad and Carole. They’re early. He knew they would be. They always are. Probably left Lima three hours ahead of schedule just to make it to their house Upstate before the traffic started. He takes a step toward the living room, but Blaine puts a hand up to block him.

“No,” he says. “ _Tracy and I_ will answer the door. You stay here with your … your … _craft_ pumpkins and your  _fake_  pumpkin smell candle, and you think about what you’ve done.” Blaine pats Tracy comfortingly on the head. “Come along, Tracy. Your Papa has some important thinking to do.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Kurt says as Blaine limps off through the living room to the front door with Tracy attached to one leg. “This coming from a man who re-made all of his friends as puppets in high school! You want to talk about a man who needs to do some important _thinking_? You should re-connect with teenage Blaine, right some issues from your past.”

Blaine doesn’t respond. He thrusts his nose in the air, squares his shoulder, and continues limping on his way.

Kurt leans against the frame and watches Blaine open the front door, eager to hear just how his husband intends to complain to his father-in-law about the horrible pumpkins he bought and how he ruined Halloween. If Kurt knows his father, all Burt’s going to care about is if there’s going to be pie and when.

The door swings open. A second later, Tracy bolts out, whooping and hollering.

“Oh, thank you, Grandpa! Grandma! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Oh, jeez,” Kurt mutters. “What the heck did my dad bring over _now_?”

Burt Hummel is notorious for spoiling his granddaughter left and right without checking with Kurt first, which explains the two-level, fully authentic Victorian-style playhouse in their backyard. His father built it piece by piece at his own house and delivered it one weekend, driving it nine hours in the back of a rented U-Haul when Kurt was away for business since he knew Kurt would say it was too much. A six-year-old girl didn’t need her own house with functional motion sensor lights that run off of solar panels, circulating water sink, and her own stocked refrigerator.

Though Kurt has to admit, it _is_ pretty awesome. Six-year-old Kurt would have been pea green with envy. As it is, thirty-five-year-old Kurt sometimes gazes at it from the kitchen window and daydreams about traveling back in time and living in there.

Kurt leaves the kitchen and heads for the front door, curious to know what all the celebrating is about.

He sees them in the yard even before he gets there – six of the biggest, misshapen, off-color, knobby and grotesque gourds Kurt has ever laid his eyes on. And there, in the middle of them, are his father and Carole, armed with neon-green pumpkin cutters, already sawing out the tops to two of the largest, one of them so big that when he’s done yanking out the cap, Burt picks Tracy up and plops her inside before Kurt can even think to stop him.

“What … the heck … are _those_?” Kurt asks, staring in disgust at the orange monstrosities blighting his freshly raked lawn.

“Those, my love,” Blaine says, as giddy as Tracy, “are _pumpkins_! Actual real live _pumpkins_!”

“Big Macs to be exact,” Burt adds, waving to his sons from the yard. “Hey, kiddo. Carole told me about your _craft pumpkin_ idea, so I thought I’d lend you a hand.”

A guilty Carole quickly adverts her gaze from Kurt’s shocked face, her cheeks turning a deep cherry red.

“Hey, Blaine!” she calls. “Why don’t you come help me with this one down here on the end? You know, the one out of throwing distance of the front door?”

“Sure thing!” Blaine giggles, oblivious to the daggers Kurt’s throwing with his signature steely gaze.

“So … he finds out about my craft pumpkins,” Kurt says, “and brings over those  _disgusting_ things?”

“Yup!” Blaine chirps, clapping Kurt on the shoulder. “And that is why Burt Hummel is officially _the greatest father-in-law that ever lived_!”

 


End file.
